


Manzanilla Olives stuffed with Blue Cheese

by Rag



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 09:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13232676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rag/pseuds/Rag
Summary: the mayor finds dave in can town





	Manzanilla Olives stuffed with Blue Cheese

You’re not sure what happened, and you’re too frazzled to try to figure it out. You were stabbed by _him_ , felt the searing pain through your gut, and your work went black. And then you woke up, here. The wound in your gut was gone, but it still throbs occasionally where you tasted his blade tearing into you. Ghost pain.

There were far too many people around. Strangers chattering away. They all seemed to already know each other, and you were too overwhelmed by it. You wanted to be alone. You needed to be alone, at least until you could think. You eventually found a room filled with food and supplies, which reminded you of this silly game you used to play with the canned vegetables in the cellar at night, while your family was asleep, when you were a child. Making a little can town out of them. So you hunker down there, claim that space as your own. Can Town the third is coming along nicely. You just need some chalk to demarcate the area divisions, but for now the citizens will have to behave and respect the unspoken zoning laws on their own.

You didn’t forget your mission, but it became almost immediately apparent to you that there was no way off this hunk of rock. When you tried approaching the edge, one of the seemingly countless children on the meteor with you pulled you back, chastising you for doing something so dangerous in such a weakened state. _There’s no where to go,_ she’d said. _We are here for another three years, or until something interrupts us. Something something space time continuum. I have to admit I do not understand half of it myself. But please do not try to walk off the edge again, Mr. Person Sir._

So there’s nothing for you to do but wait, apparently. You try looking for yourself again, when there aren’t as many people around, and you see no obvious exists, just a dizzying fall into an abyss that you’re not tempted to test.

You have a feeling that you died. You don’t know why, but something in your gut tells you it’s true. And that’s what you need to sit on. So you indulge in your stupid game and think on it. Why you were brought back, how, what happens next, whether or not you _really_ have to wait another _three years_ before anything else happens to you or your quest. And if all these kids are in the same boat. It would explain why they’re so incredibly loud and energetic.

Sometimes you leave your little chamber, like you do tonight, to scope out your area. You’re exploring a little more every day. Today, you make it as far as several rooms away from yours, which you explore maybe a little too thoroughly because it’s something to do, before getting beaten down with the futility of it and making your way back. Progress, you suppose. Can Town is more fun. There’s very important business there, anyways, and you can’t miss the annual ketchup and peas concerns meeting.

You realize the moment you open the door that you’re not alone. A quiet little hiccupping sound echoes from the corner. Cautiously, you make your way over to it until you can see what’s causing it. One of the children on the ship, the one with a bright red cape who wears sun-protectant lenses inside and out, is on the floor, is curled up in a little ball. His shoulders are shaking a little and he sniffles. Oh, he’s crying, isn’t he?

You’re not sure what your next step should be, but you don’t want to just leave a child here crying without trying to help him. You don’t care that he’s in your space. It hurts your chest to see. Without thinking about it, you knock your knuckle against one of the cans. The boy snaps his head up.

“Shit.”

You wave tentatively and start to approach. He draws in on himself tighter, pulls his cape around himself a little more taut.

“Fuck. You want me to clear out? This is your space, isn’t it? Shit. Of course there’s no fucking open room on the ship, why the hell would there be-“

You shake your head.

“No?”

You nod, and point to the ground. _Stay here_. And when you come closer this time, you can tell that he’s watching you carefully, but he doesn’t draw back. You take a seat on a stack of cans a few feet off from him. You hope your ass doesn’t crush the fruitful beginnings of Strawberry Manor.

“What are you doing here, anyways,” he asks weakly.

You point at the cans around you, and feel the silliness of the last few days washing over you. Well, he probably won’t care. He has other things on his mind.

“Oh. Okay, yeah.” He looks down. You worry that he might start crying again. “Can you talk at all?”

You shake your head, then mime typing.

“Oh, okay. Yeah. Makes sense. Do you not have your thing on you? A phone or something?”

You shake your head. You don’t have a _thing_ , never needed to. Carapacians communicate through gestures and expression and intent and things that are hard to put into written language. You’re all taught to read and write so that you can access books and long-distance communication, but you don’t _need_ to write on a daily basis, and you’ve never been forgetful enough to warrant carrying around a touchtype box for notes. But you can’t communicate any of that to him, because you didn’t bother to get yourself a communicator in the few days you’ve been here. Idiot.

“That sucks, dude. Shit, do you want to use mine? Internet’s busted up anyways on this stupid fucking rock. Just don’t break it.”

He doesn’t even let you say no, he just tosses it over to you. The screen is covered in garish colors that clash with garish font. It hurts to look at.

Okay, then.

[I’m just going to borrow this.]

“Well, yeah. No offense, but I definitely need it back. There’s some hidden gold in here. Uh, we can probably get you another with the transporatalizer, though.”

[I would appreciate that.]

“Who the hell are you, anyways? I see you creeping around sometimes. You had a wicked bad wound, you know?”

[I’m aware.]

“Yeah, you would be. Do you have a name?

[Warweary Villein]

He looks at it and makes a pretty rude gesture with his mouth.

“ _That’s_ your name? Fuck. Shit. Sorry. Fuck. So fucking rude-“

You laugh. You know it’s a mouthful for a non-carapacian. You type out your response while he rambles himself into a corner about the trials of alien communication.

[Excuse you. It has significant meaning and denotes rank.]

“Shit, fuck-“

[It’s fine. What’s your name?]

“Dave.”

[Why were you crying, Dave?]

He clams right back up. You worry he’s just going to leave, that you crossed some species taboo about emotional vulnerability and offended him or made him sadder or freaked him out instead of just offering an ear. Then he starts to talk.

“I. Just wanted to be alone, I guess.” His voice gets a little shaky and your chest tightens up. He’s too young to be on his own like this. All of them are. “Everything’s so different all of the sudden, you know? Like, wake up one day and you’re baking in the fucking Texas heat and the next day you’re plumb on the middle of a cold-ass spacerock with a bunch of aliens and your-half sister and that’s great right like that’s,” he takes a deep breath as another tear drips past his glasses and down his cheek, “great but it doesn’t change that it’s different and everything is gone and everyone else I knew is gone and it’s fucked up. And- and- and he’s just fucking dead, and- and I don’t-” He crumples back in on himself and talks into his knees. “Sorry. This i-is stupid.”

You don’t know what half those things mean, but it doesn’t matter. The other half makes plenty of sense.

[It’s not stupid. That’s a lot to deal with at once.]

 _Especially for a kid_ , you don’t add.

He starts crying again. Really softly.

“Sorry. This is so sh-shitty and weak I know but i-it’s a lot and I think there’s onions in the room that’s making this shit worse th-a-an it has to be-“

[It’s okay. Do you want to be alone?]

He cries harder. Oh, you did it now, didn’t you?

“I don’t know. I don’t know, dude. I don’t know. Sorry.”

He clutches his cape tighter to himself. The fabric is so thin and he keeps pulling at it, like he’s trying to make it stretch farther. He said he was cold. You get a little idea for what you can do to help. You’ve found a box full of blankets in here at some point, and sequestered them into the rarely-visited Fabric Fields because the temperature doesn’t bother you. You scurry along, leaving [I’ll be right back] on his phone, and grab one of the blankets out. He’s right where you left him shaking and looking like he’s trying to be as small as possible, his phone untouched and probably unread. You rap the cans to get his attention, and hand him the blanket.

“Wha-” He sniffles. “Oh. Okay.” He takes it and wraps it around himself. It does a lot more than his cape did to cocoon him, and he seems to take some comfort in that. He stops crying as hard, and eventually the shaking stops. “Thanks. This is the shit.”

You nod and gives him a thumbs up, which makes him laugh.

The two of you sit in silence for a few beats, and he occasionally clutches the blanket tighter around himself. Oh, water. He probably needs water. You should have thought of that when you grabbed the blanket.

[I’ll be right back.]

“Okay.”

This time, you don’t forget silly things. You bring back water, a can opener, canned beans, canned oranges, canned mustard, and canned creamed corn, because you can’t begin to fathom what he wants to eat. Aliens have such strange palettes.

“Is that all for me?”

You nod as you plunk it all down at his feet. He stares at it for a while, and then carefully drinks the water.

“Maybe later for the rest. But, uh, thanks.”

[Suit yourself.]

You’re kind of hungry yourself, so crack open the can of mustard and guzzle it down.

“Woah. Was that a whole can of mustard.”

[Sorry, did you want one too?]

“Absolutely not, dude.” He laughs. “That’s so metal.”

You’re not sure why he feels the need to comment on the material of the can, so you just nod.

He takes another drink of water, and then unwraps the blanket around him. He seems to have calmed down considerably.

“Well, thanks for listening to my dumb shit. Sorry you had to hear all that.”

[It’s not dumb. But I guess you want your phone back now?]

He pauses. “Maybe, like. I can help you build up your can town sometime.”

[Sure. I’m just here.]

“Okay. Cool. I’ll bring you a phone. If you don’t already find one. Or whatever.” He sniffles again. “Can I. This is so gay, but like, can I keep this?” He tugs at the blanket.

[Of course. There are hundreds here. Let me know if you want more.]

“Sick. Okay. Bye, Warville Villon.” You laugh and hand him the phone. He pauses before leaving. “Thanks for being cool.”

You give him a thumbs up, and he walks off. You really hope he’s okay, and that you helped.

*

He comes by the next day, with an extra phone in hand that he gives to you. He asks you some questions about how you got here. You offer him all the canned food he can eat, which he eventually does begin to eat. Neither of you mention the night you found him crying. You’re pretty sure he’s embarrassed about it, so you let it drop.

Eventually he starts bringing his friend, the loud boy with horns. And the three of you set to killing time together, building a town of cans as they tell you about where and how they grew up, drama on the meteor (you gradually learn the names of everyone on the ship, but they give you no slow ramp into introductions before telling you all about who’s dating who - a concept which you have to make them stop and explain to you).

And you don’t know who said what to who, but eventually more of the kids start coming to see you and asking for help with things like relationship trouble and edible meal preparation and, hey, listen, is this rap any good or should I give it another once over.

If you’ve had to have guessed a year ago where you’d be today, stuck in an action-suspended hunk of rock in spacetime as the resident adult among a group of kids would not have crossed your mind. But you find that there are worse ways to pass the time when you’re stuck in an action-suspended hunk of rock in spacetime. There are worse ways to pass the time in general.


End file.
